


The Tingling Bruises of Collision

by CoffeeWithConsequences



Series: Retrouvailles [4]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Bad Decisions, Exhaustion, Hate Sex, Hockey, Love/Hate, M/M, Misery, Poor Life Choices, dirty hockey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 12:13:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15048773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeWithConsequences/pseuds/CoffeeWithConsequences
Summary: As Kent and Jack grow closer, the Aces and the Falconers meet on the ice, and their fragile new-old relationship takes another turn.





	The Tingling Bruises of Collision

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place after [It's Not the Load That Breaks You Down (It's the Way You Carry It)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15037646). 
> 
> Warnings: This one is all angst, folks. It's not a happy story. It's also sexually graphic. For those who are reading the whole series, though, I promise it won't all be this bleak.

"The Feast Of Stephen" by Anthony Hecht

_i._

_The coltish horseplay of the locker room,_  
_Moist with the steam of the tiled shower stalls,_  
_With shameless blends of civet, musk and sweat,_  
_Loud with the cap-gun snapping of wet towels_  
_Under the steel-ribbed cages of bare bulbs,_  
_In some such setting of thick basement pipes_  
_And janitorial realities_  
_Boys for the first time frankly eye each other,_  
_Inspect each others’ bodies at close range,_  
_And what they see is not so much another_  
_As a strange, possible version of themselves,_  
_And all the sparring dance, adrenal life,_  
_Tense, jubilant nimbleness, is but a vague,_  
_Busy, unfocused ballet of self-love._

_ii._

_If the heart has its reasons, perhaps the body_  
_Has its own lumbering sort of carnal spirit,_  
_Felt in the tingling bruises of collision,_  
_And known to captains as esprit de corps._  
_What is this brisk fraternity of timing,_  
_Pivot and lobbing arc, or indirection,_  
_Mens sana in men’s sauna, in the flush_  
_Of health and toilets, private and corporal glee,_  
_These fleet caroms, plies and genuflections_  
_Before the salmon-leap, the leaping fountain_  
_All sheathed in glistening light, flexed and alert?_  
_From the vast echo-chamber of the gym,_  
_Among the stumbled shouts and shrill of whistles,_  
_The bounced basketball sound of a leather whip._

_iii._

_Think of those barren places where men gather_  
_To act in the terrible name of rectitude,_  
_Of acned shame, punk’s pride, muscle or turf,_  
_The bully’s thin superiority._  
_Think of the Sturm-Abteilungs Kommandant_  
_Who loves Beethoven and collects Degas,_  
_Or the blond boys in jeans whose narrowed eyes_  
_Are focussed by some hard and smothered lust,_  
_Who lounge in a studied mimicry of ease,_  
_Flick their live butts into the standing weeds,_  
_And comb their hair in the mirror of cracked windows_  
_Of an abandoned warehouse where they keep_  
_In darkened readiness for their occasion_  
_The rope, the chains, handcuffs and gasoline._

_iv._

_Out in the rippled heat of a neighbor’s field,_  
_In the kilowatts of noon, they’ve got one cornered._  
_The bugs are jumping, and the burly youths_  
_Strip to the waist for the hot work ahead._  
_They go to arm themselves at the dry-stone wall,_  
_Having flung down their wet and salty garments_  
_At the feet of a young man whose name is Saul._  
_He watches sharply these superbly tanned_  
_Figures with a swimmer’s chest and shoulders,_  
_A miler’s thighs, with their self-conscious grace,_  
_And in between their sleek, converging bodies,_  
_Brilliantly oiled and burnished by the sun,_  
_He catches a brief glimpse of bloodied hair_  
_And hears an unintelligible prayer._

Jack’s hockey had changed--he was faster, more confident--but Kent didn’t realize how much until they got out on the ice for their second match-up of the season. Both the Aces and the Falconers were in good-but-not-great playoff positions as the season wound down. A loss wouldn’t knock either team out, but the losing team would be dependent on the rest of the board to go their way. So, stakes were high. Before the game, Kent fielded a number of questions about playing against Jack--not so many as he had earlier in the year, but apparently the press was having a slow day. He answered them with the same practiced nonchalance as always, but his stomach told another story.

Kent went through his game-day routine on auto-pilot, doing the same things, listening to the same songs, trying to treat the game like any other. None of it felt normal. Last time he faced Jack on the ice, Kent blocked him out completely, not even looking at him unless strictly necessary. Things had changed between them since then, and now he wasn’t sure what he was going to come out to see.

Jack never got the reputation he deserved as a dirty player. Because his hockey was so beautiful, and because they were comparing him to Bad Bob, who was another kind of player entirely, referees and commentators tended not to notice Jack’s aggression, or hear his chirps. On-ice Jack was a different beast altogether from the reserved off-ice version, and he was not above a dirty hit or a nasty word. For the first time, though, Kent was seeing Jack’s on-ice vitriol aimed at him.

When he thought about it later, Kent would understand why Jack came after him so hard. After leaning on him over the past weeks, Jack was embarrassed, and Zimmermann embarrassment often turned ugly. Jack was trying to establish himself as strong, not needy, even if it wasn’t rational. On the ice, though, in the moment, Kent didn’t think about the reasons. He was first shocked, then, after Jack pushed him into the boards hard enough to take his breath away, completely pissed off.

It fell apart from there. Once Jack and Kent were gunning for one another, it was as if both of their teams took a step back and just let them collide. They never actually dropped gloves--Kent couldn’t remember the last time he did that, and he wasn’t sure Jack ever had--but it was a close thing. Kent was never above playing dirty--had a little bit of a reputation for it--and Jack brought out the worst in him.

“Cocksucker,” Kent muttered after Jack stole the puck from him. The pass was no good and it turned right back over, but it didn’t matter.

“I remember that being more your thing,” Jack answered snidely, before taking off down the ice.

Kent was shocked still for a moment. Of all the things he’d never expected to hear from Jack’s mouth, an acknowledgment of their past relationship had to be near the top of the list. Even when they were doing it, Jack would never lower himself to talking about it. Certainly not in explicit terms.

Later, Kent got away with a high stick, nearly taking Jack’s knees out in the process. “Sneaky little fuck,” Jack said, his voice louder than it had been before.

“Don’t whine, Zimms,” Kent answered. “Makes you sound like a rookie.”

As the game rolled into the third period, they were both pretty well out of control. They swore at each other, said things neither of them meant, drew excessive fouls. Neither of them played well, though Jack managed an assist, and Kent eventually put a lucky shot in on a goalkeeper error. By the time the game ended, with the Aces scoring at the last minute and managing a 2-1 victory, both of their teams were less than thrilled with them.

Kent sat through his locker room lecture in silence. He knew he deserved it. As soon as he left the ice, his anger started to fade into humiliation. He was a professional. He knew better. Which was exactly what he was being told, his coach red in the face.

“I know,” Kent said, when the coach finally stopped for breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let it get to me.” He attempted a contrite expression. He’d had enough over-aggressive games to know he was in danger of being scratched if he didn’t come off as sorry. “It won’t happen again.”

With a final huff, the coach left. Kent got dressed, blessedly skipped press, and headed toward his car.

Kent’s phone chimed with an incoming text just as he pulled into his parking space. He grabbed it as he juggled his gear and headed toward the door.

_We should talk._

That was unexpected. After what happened on the ice, Kent wasn’t sure he’d hear from Jack for weeks or months or years. After he got inside and tossed his stuff down, he considered. Did he even want to talk to Jack right now? He didn’t feel angry so much as resigned. He’d been afraid, as Jack seemed to want to start letting him in, that it would backlash in just this way.

 _Talked plenty on the ice,_ he finally texted back. No matter how much he knew he should be the bigger man, he was only human.

Jack’s response was almost instantaneous. _We fucked that up._

Before Kent could answer, another text came through.

_Did you get yelled at?_

Kent’s memory filled with a much younger Jack, sitting cross-legged on a hotel room bed, laughing. “Kenny, you’re going to get yelled at for that.” Kent had just impulsively dyed his blond hair pink in their shower, managing to stain the walls, the floor, and all the towels.

_Yeah. Deserved it. You?_

_Same._

Kent opened his fridge and took out a Gatorade. He only had blue ones left. Fucking blue ones.

 _Come over,_ he texted, before he could second-guess himself. _We do need to talk._

While he waited for Jack, Kent changed into sweats and a t-shirt, iced his knee, kept half an eye on the highlights on ESPN. Boston lost, which was good for Providence. He thought about having a drink, but decided against it. Given that he had no idea what Jack would say, he’d probably better keep a clear head.

When Jack had come in and was standing awkwardly in Kent’s kitchen, Kent realized, as he did every time he saw Jack, that the Jack in his memory was much smaller than the real Jack. Kent’s memory was stuck on nineteen-year-old Jack, still not quite filled out for his height, twenty or thirty pounds less muscle on his frame. Kent had grown since juniors too, but he was still little for a professional hockey player. People meeting him were always surprised he wasn’t bigger. Jack looked every inch a professional athlete. Standing across from Jack, mimicking his posture, leaning against the counter, Kent felt unfairly small.

“So,” Kent said, hating the silence, “that was a clusterfuck.”

Jack nodded. “We know better.”

“We do.” If Jack was expecting an apology, he wasn’t going to get one.

“You still play dirty.”

“And you still play dirty and sneaky.”

Jack smirked, maybe an almost-smile? He didn’t answer.

“Is this how we’re doing this?’ Kent asked. “You’re going to cry on my shoulder, then decide you can’t stand me on the ice? Because I gotta tell you, Zimms, I’m too old for that shit.”

Jack sighed. “I know.” He looked around the room, trying to find his words. “I didn’t...I didn’t plan that.”

Kent nodded. He’d figured as much. _Jack Zimmermann, emotional invalid._ “You need a therapist man.”

Jack snorted. “You think I don’t have a therapist? I have fucking three therapists, Parse. And a shrink. And a support group.”

Kent raised his eyebrows. “You really do all that stuff?”

Jack shook his head. “Nah. But it’s there. If I need it.”

“And you don’t need it now?” Kent knew they were on dangerous ground, but he was never able to stop once he started.

“No.” Jack’s voice made it clear it wasn’t up for discussion.

“So what do you need?” Kent’s own therapist was in his head, urging him to take time and think before he did or said things he couldn’t take back. He squeezed his eyes shut until the voice was silenced.

Jack didn’t answer. He stared at Kent with the same predatory gaze he had on the ice. He didn’t look like the anxious, addicted mess Kent left in juniors, or the sad, pathetic one he visited in Providence. He looked like a hockey captain with plays to run. There was no exhaustion in his body language, no hesitation in his face.

“Is this how we’re doing this?” Kent repeated, his feet already moving. He closed the space between them in two steps. “It’s going to hurt.”

“Good.”

They didn’t kiss so much as collide, crashing into each other in a full-body check. Kent’s mouth was open immediately, Jack’s tongue pushing inside, hot and demanding. They were all tongues and teeth, lips pressed together so hard they hurt. Jack’s hands were in Kent’s hair, pushing the snapback off his head and pulling against his scalp. Kent wrapped one arm around Jack’s waist, holding Jack’s body flush against his own, the other hand clawing at Jack’s chest, pushing under his jacket and over his heart.

The kissing didn’t last long. They broke away from each other, panting, staring with wide-eyes. They were both surprised at what they’d done, and surprised it took so long. Kent knew he should say something, should stop it. At the very least he should check in, make sure they were on the same page. He didn’t care, though. Jack was all around him, already seeping into his skin, and he didn’t have the strength to pull back now.

“Bedroom,” Kent ordered, starting down the hall. Jack followed, his hands never leaving Kent’s hips, thumbs already under the hem of his shirt. Kent didn’t turn on the lights, didn’t close the door, just turned back to Jack the minute they crossed the threshold, meeting his lips again, just as hard. He tore at Jack’s jacket, pulled on his tie. “Take this off.”

Kent ripped his own t-shirt off over his head while Jack took off his jacket and tie and unbuttoned his shirt. That was as far as he got before they were colliding again, Kent’s hands running over Jack’s chest, finding new, hard muscles. “You’re different.”

“Everybody changes, Kenny,” Jack said, pulling Kent closer into him by the waistband of his sweats. Then his hands were inside them, pushing them down Kent’s hips.

When they fell onto Kent’s bed, he was down to his underwear, already straining and wet against them. Jack still wore his open shirt, his trousers stuck somewhere around his ankles. Jack was toeing his shoes off when Kent started to kiss down his neck, tracing the corded muscles of his shoulders with his tongue, biting his collarbone hard enough to mark.

When Jack reached inside his underwear, Kent hissed and bucked against his palm. Jack’s grip was tight to the point of painful. _I don’t like it like that anymore,_ Kent thought, but the words died on his lips.

“Want this off,” Kent muttered, pushing at Jack’s underwear. Jack used his other hand to help. Kent was afraid to look at his face. Instead, he focused on Jack’s cock, on what he remembered Jack liking. Had this changed, too? There was no way to know.

They jerked each other off in silence, hands working quickly, lips again locked together. It was hot and fast. Neither of them asked how the other was feeling. Finally, his orgasm building, Kent pulled away. He didn’t want it to end so quickly. “Do you want to fuck me?” He didn’t play coy.

Before, they’d rarely done another more than use their hands. Kent had liked to have Jack in his mouth, but Jack hadn’t been sure about that. They’d tried penetrative sex only a couple of times. Kent had no idea how much experience Jack had since then, and he doubted it was information Jack was likely to offer. Still, he felt near-desperate for more, for whatever he could get.

“No,” Jack said, sitting back and gasping--he’d been close, too. “You fuck me.”

Kent didn’t hide his surprise, but the idea made his cheeks burn. “OK. Yeah.” He reached toward his bedside table.

Jack slapped Kent’s hand away as he opened himself up, so Kent slithered down the bed on his stomach and took Jack’s cock in his mouth. This, at least, hadn’t changed. The weight and taste of him was the same. Kent kept it teasing, light and slow, and Jack responded, eventually, with a breathy “Goddammit, Parse.” Smiling, Kent leaned forward and swallowed around Jack, listening for the bitten-off groan with which he was rewarded.

A moment later, Jack was pulling his hair. “Ready,” Jack said, his face hard. He looked more resigned than turned on.

Kent felt a pang he didn’t want to think too much about. “You sure?”

Jack glared. “C’mon.” He turned over and got up on his knees.

Kent tried to go in slow, not terribly comfortable on this side of things, and not sure how long it had been for Jack. After his first full thrust of tight-wet-hot-Jesus-fuck, though, he couldn’t help but rock his hips a bit more quickly. The moment he did, Jack pushed back against him, his big body braced up on his arms and pressing backward. Kent focused on Jack’s ass, digging his thumbs into the hard muscles and trying to keep himself calm. It was no use. This was too much.

Kent had rarely thought about what sex with Jack would be like. He’d assumed it would be different than it had been before, and it was, but he could never have expected this. Jack moved like someone who wanted to be hurt, someone who wanted to be punished. He never asked for anything explicitly, but he pushed for every extra inch, every extra thrust. Kent complied, because it was so fucking good, and because he didn’t know how to stop it.

Afterward, they laid on Kent’s bed, not touching, regaining their breath. Kent was slowly aware of how much his body hurt, of how very stupid it was to have that kind of an interaction post-game. At least a half-dozen of his new bruises had Jack’s name on them, from the black and purple blooming on his hip to the raw spot on his neck. He glanced at Jack and saw in his face he must be feeling the same. Slowly, Kent sat up, flicking on the bedside lamp.

They were both absolute disasters. The typical detritus of sex surrounded them, a condom wrapper, a leaking lube bottle, Jack’s spend striping the sheets, but their bodies were even worse. They were both mottled with weeks of bruises, the trophies of hard-fought games, both thinner than they should be, both dark-eyed with exhaustion. This had been the last thing either of them needed. Kent reached out and traced a soft finger down Jack’s ribs, where a half-healed bruise was yellowing around the edges. Jack hissed, but didn’t pull away.

“We gonna pretend we didn’t do this?” Kent finally asked, for lack of something better to say. He wished Jack would disappear, so he could stand for an hour under a hot shower, then curl up with his cat and sleep until he stopped feeling so much. He’d been leaving the TV on when he went to bed lately, afraid of the silence in his own head.

“I don’t know.” Jack didn’t look at him. “Is that what you want?”

Kent sighed. He had no fucking idea. At one point, he thought that having Jack back in his life, in his bed, was all he wanted. He didn’t say anything.

Finally, Jack stood, wincing. _Yeah, that’s how it feels,_ Kent though, dark and ugly.

“Bathroom?” Jack asked, pointing toward the door to the ensuite.

“Yeah.”

Kent laid in the middle of the bed and listened to Jack clean up, trying not to think about what it would be like to have that sound in his life more often, to know the noises someone else made when they brushed their teeth and washed their face and shaved. By the time Jack came back out, Kent had pulled shorts on and was flipping through Twitter on his phone, determined to be casual.

They didn’t talk as Jack re-dressed. “Well,” he said, awkward as ever, “I’ve got curfew, so…”

“Yeah, OK.” Kent barely looked up. He couldn’t stomach this scene now. “See ya.” Feeling a little guilty, he added, “good luck with the Habs on Tuesday.”

Jack nodded, the barest glint of a smile crossing his face. “Yeah. I guess maybe we’ll see you in the playoffs.”

Kent just shrugged.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind Jack, Kit crawled out from the under the bed. She gave Kent a judgmental look, then hopped up beside him. “I know,” he said, meeting her green eyes. “This was fucked up.”

She seemed to agree, stepping delicately over the mess in the middle of the bed and settling herself on Kent’s bare chest, grazing him with her claws. He petted her idly. “You don’t understand, Kit,” he said. “This is what he does to me. Some things have changed, but that one hasn’t.” He scratched under her chin and she looked at him again, clearly indifferent. “That’s what I get,” he sniffed. “Trying to get sympathy from a cat.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please come visit me on [Tumblr](https://coffeewithconsequences.tumblr.com/) or read the rest of my fic here at [Archive of Our Own](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeWithConsequences/works)!


End file.
